


Relief in Breathing

by Slenderlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Fluff, High School AU, M/M, Nerd John, Uni AU also sort of works I guess, also Greaser Sherlock, nothing but unashamed tropes here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderlock/pseuds/Slenderlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t believe this- this is Sherlock Holmes, for god’s sake. The boy who can be found smoking the last of the day’s pack of cigarettes at lunch hour. The boy who rides a bloody <i>motorcycle</i> to school and back. For fuck’s sake, he’s pretty sure that Sherlock Holmes is in one of his classes, but hell if John’s ever actually seen him there. </p><p>And he does <i>ballet?</i></p><p>(For <a href="http://www.robottko.tumblr.com">robottko</a> .)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief in Breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Robottko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robottko/gifts).



“Come on, Johnny, it’ll be fun _._ ” Harry gives John a pitiful look. “You like dancing, yeah?”

“Not _ballet._ ” John frowns and gives her back the ticket. “Bring your girlfriend- what was her name?”

“Suzette,” Harry says, shrugging. “And she can’t come. Her cousin’s getting married. Plus, I got these tickets for super cheap. Seriously.”

 “Harry, I’m sorry.” John sighs. “I just don’t like ballet all that much.”

“Then you need to expand your horizons.”

“Harry.”

Harry huffs. “Fine. If you really don’t like it at all, then I’ll pay for ice cream afterwards.”

“I’m not five.”

“Ice cream, Johnny. Come on, we’ll stop at FrostAway.”

FrostAway has the best ice cream in the world, at least in John’s opinion. His favorite flavor is Kangamangus, which has both chocolate covered pretzel bits and caramel in it. Every time he has a Calculus test, he stops by FrostAway on the way home and buys a cone to treat himself.

“And you’ll buy it? For both of us?”

“Yep. Whatever flavor, whatever size.”

John smirks. “Fine.”

He will not enjoy this ballet, he thinks to himself. No matter what it takes.

o0O0o

The people there are all stuffy. John hates them. He wonders how much time he’s wasting now that he could have spent studying- he’s got a genetics exam on Friday, damn it. Almost all of them are old people. Harry seems to be entirely at home here.

“I’m regretting my decision,” John mumbles, as they find their seats. The armrests are too close together and he feels cramped between Harry and the stranger on his left. “Why did I let you talk me into this in the first place, anyway?”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry says, handing him a program. “Even if you don’t like it, it’s only two hours. Think of it like a math and science block class. You can grit your teeth to get through it.”

“But I _like_ calculus-”

“Shush.” Harry flips open her program. The ballet’s title, _Coppelia,_ is advertised brightly on the cover.

Reluctantly, John opens his own program and begins to read. A man falls in love with a woman, though he’s engaged to another woman. Stuff happens, people are confused. And in the end, there’s a wedding. Great.

The lights eventually dim and as the host comes up to introduce the ballet, one thing becomes abundantly clear. The announcer seems to be around John’s age. He flips through the program quickly and finds the reason why Harry had gotten such a good price on those tickets. Evidently the students who had been interning at the theatre company are getting the chance to put their own version of the ballet on.

The lights finally dim completely and the curtain rises for the show. John slouches as far back in his seat as he can. It’s one thing that Harry’s making him see this stupid ballet, but it’s another that it’s not even going to be a good ballet. The one good thing that will come out of this is a waffle cone with two- no, three- scoops of Kangamangus.

The male lead makes his way onto the stage, and begins to dance. His jacket twirls and swishes behind him as he moves from one side of the stage to the next. He wears an elaborate mask with silk ties that fall past his shoulders and rest on his back. The costume department has done a pretty good job, John has to admit.

Another dancer makes her entrance, this one on top of a balcony. The male dancer’s character seems unaware of her existence, until he turns. He flings his mask off and suddenly John is staring at Sherlock Holmes.

John watches, mouth hanging open, sitting as far forward in his chair as he can. Sherlock twirls and spins, apparently entranced by the girl on the balcony.

He can’t believe this- this is _Sherlock Holmes,_ for god’s sake. The boy who can be found smoking the last of the day’s pack of cigarettes at lunch hour. The boy who rides a bloody _motorcycle_ to school and back. For fuck’s sake, he’s pretty sure that Sherlock Holmes is in one of his classes, but hell if John’s ever actually seen him there.

And he does _ballet?_

Harry nudges him, and John realizes that his mouth is still wide open. He snaps it shut, tearing his eyes off the stage and looking at Harry. She raises an eyebrow quizzically, clearly not understanding what’s gotten his attention. He slouches back in his seat, not meeting her eyes. Not only can she not know that he might be enjoying the ballet a little bit, but she absolutely cannot know that he is watching one of the dancers in particular. She’d tease him endlessly.

John has never really watched ballet before. He knows a few things, like just how hard it is to bend your legs that way, _jesus._ He unclenches his hand and finds that the edge of his program is wrinkled a little from all the sweat pooling in his hands. Stupid high metabolism.

By the time the ballet finishes, he’s lost track of the story completely.

“So?” Harry says, nudging him with her arm. “You liked it?”

“No,” he says immediately, nudging her back. “Course I didn’t. I couldn’t even follow the dumb story.”

“Hmm.” Harry links her arm around his and leads him down the sidewalk. “Maybe it wasn’t the ballet that you enjoyed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you watching, dear brother.”

“Watching? I wasn’t watching.” John doesn’t look at Harry as they walk down the sidewalk.

“Yes you were.”

“I was looking up at the translations.”

“Liar.” But there’s no malice behind her words. He knows Harry really does mean well, so he bumps his shoulder with hers. “You were watching.”

“What else was I supposed to do? There was a show going on, isn’t it usually polite to watch-”

“You know what I mean, Johnny.” Harry laughs, and John is struck by the fact that it’s been far too long since he’s last heard Harry laugh like that, a real laugh. “Come on, let’s go out for ice cream.”

“But-”

“No butts, Johnny. Unless they’re covered in leotards,” she teases, turning him around the corner and towards the ice cream shop.

They split one big bowl, both loving the same flavor and neither being able to finish an entire serving on their own- though John does steal most of the pretzel bits, and Harry satisfies herself by scooping away most of the fudge sauce.

“It was pretty amazing, though,” Harry says, after licking the back of her spoon clean. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” John says, scooping the last of the caramel out of the cup now that Harry’s abandoned it. “He was.”

“He?”

“The- main lead,” John says, hurriedly. “He was fantastic.” He slips the spoon into his mouth before he can say anything else, but Harry’s eyes are already twinkling with amusement.

“I’m sure he was,” is all she says.

He throws the cup into the trash as they leave and links his sticky hand in hers, cherishing the last bit of the night. It’s not every day he has a nice night out with his sister, and he never knows when will be the last. They walk home through the night, chatting about things that John really couldn’t care less about, and by the time they make it back home, John has almost forgotten about the ballet entirely.

o0O0o

John remembers the ballet in its entirety.

His pencil twitches in his hand as he sits in the back of his English class, and he taps it absently on the paper in front of him to keep it at bay. Sitting two seats in front of him is Sherlock bloody Holmes, sitting perfectly god damned still when John just _knows_ what he can do. Knows how he can twist and turn his entire body as if it’s made out of liquid, knows how he can swirl his arms in the air as if they move of their own accord and he is merely the vessel that holds them, merely present only to watch them.

He looks down at his paper and finds that the pencil has drawn a long curve over the lines, beginning with an odd zigzag and running off the other side. He looks down at it, huffs.

He writes, very carefully.

_there is sweet music here_

He stops. Looks at it. Taps his pencil again.

_that softer falls than petals from blown roses on the grass_

He curves the letters to follow the line, as if they are blown by some invisible wind.

 _you are beautiful,_ he writes, because those are the next three words that happen to slide into his head.

_you are beautiful you are beautiful you are beautiful_

He writes each of the letters of the last word out, slowly, elongates them, makes them fall down the page as if the word drips with meaning (and god, he hates that stupid metaphor, people’s words don’t _drip_ with anything, let alone sarcasm, but somehow it works here) and lets the last ‘L’ slide off the page.

He has two lines of a poem and four iterations of a nonsense sentence.

Looking up from his paper, John sees the whiteboard is now covered with the week’s assigned chapters and questions, and he realizes that he’s just doodled over his scratch paper. Frantic now, in case Mr. Willis erases it, he flips the paper down and scribbles down the chapter numbers, and he’s just about to write down the questions when the eraser shuffles over them and they’re gone.

The bell rings, then, and he sighs to himself. Perfect. Now he’s going to have to ask Mr. Willis to repeat the questions, and when he does, he’s going to have to explain _why_ he wasn’t able to copy them down earlier, and he really doesn’t fancy showing him the piece of paper with the doodle that had manifested itself.  He packs away everything but a pen and the piece of paper,  slings the bag over his shoulder, and-

“Watson.”

John jumps and drops his paper back onto the table at the voice- he’s heard it before, of course- how could he forget- but it’s not the timbre of anyone he’s familiar with. No, this voice is deeper, quieter. 

Sherlock looks down at the table, at the paper. He reads over the words, raises an eyebrow.

“Tennyson,” he says.

“Um,” says John.

Sherlock merely smiles and plucks John’s pen right out of his hands. He flips the paper over and begins writing. John looks down to see the questions Mr. Willis had written, in Sherlock’s nearly indecipherable but still somehow graceful script. Sherlock finishes with a bit of a flourish, swirling the question mark and dotting it almost fondly. He flips the paper over again so that the nonsense words face the ceiling.

“You were there,” he says, leaning forward on the desk and holding the pen out. John takes it from him, carefully. It feels cool in his hand, and he wraps his fingers around it and pretends it’s brand new. “Last night.”

“I, uh,” John says, looking down at the paper. Somehow the first line, the connection from one side of the paper to the other, looks messy now. “Yeah, I was.”

“With your girlfriend,” Sherlock continues. John opens his mouth to correct him, but he presses on. “She doesn’t go here, does she? How long have you two been together? Years, now? Your relationship is… interesting.”

“Interesting,” John repeats.

“Yes. You clearly didn’t want to go, yet she was enjoying herself. Ergo, she’s the reason you were there at all. You must care for her deeply.”

“Oh, yeah,” John says, because why the hell not? “Loads.”

Sherlock sniffs. “Relationships. Unpalatable,” he says, looking down at the paper once more.

“Mmm,” John says. He doesn’t really know how to go about this whole ‘being witty’ thing. He knows what he knows and Sherlock doesn’t, but how exactly is he supposed to say it?

Sherlock lifts his arm from the table, stands up again. John is suddenly aware that unless he does something now, Sherlock’s going to leave and he might not ever be able to talk to him again, probably ever.

“You were amazing,” he says, before he can stop himself. “Um. I’d never seen ballet before, but what I saw last night was incredible.” He smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

Sherlock blinks. “You think so?” he asks, after a moment.

“Yes.” John nods emphatically. “Course it was, it was…” He searches for an adjective that could possibly describe what he wants to say. “Extraordinary. Quite. Extraordinary.”

Sherlock frowns. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“And what do people normally say?”

“I’m sure you can imagine.” Sherlock gives him what he thinks is a smile, he’s not sure.

John’s mobile buzzes in his pocket. He gives Sherlock an apologetic look and pulls it out, checks. Mike and Greg are waiting for him in the library- of course, he’s usually there by now, it’s ten minutes into lunch. He ignores the text- he’ll be there eventually- and stuffs the mobile back into his pocket.

“Sorry,” he says, smiling awkwardly. Sherlock’s eyes are on his pocket for a moment before they flicker back to his face. “But, uh, yeah- Harry told me she liked it, too.”

“Your brother was there as well?” Sherlock concludes, cocking his head to the side.

“Brother?” John repeats.

“The same brother who handed down that phone to you,” Sherlock adds. “Yes, your brother.” He frowns. “Though I find it odd that you’d bring both your brother and your girlfriend-”

“Sister,” John corrects smugly.

“Sister?” Sherlock repeats.

“Yeah.”

“You went with your _sister_ ,” Sherlock says, and then leans on the table again. John hears a small triumphant chorus echoing in the back of his mind. “I see.”

“She liked it,” John repeats, unsure of what to say, now that he’s played his trump card for the sake of actually playing a card.

“As a regular actor, the company provides me with a season pass,” Sherlock continues, as if John hasn’t spoken.

“Uh huh.” John nods.

“If you ever find yourself with time on your hands…” Sherlock trails off, looking almost _up_ at John because he’s leaning so much on the table. John wonders absently how much strain it would take to break one of these tables. And then he repeats Sherlock’s words in his head.

“Oh!” he says, laughing a little. “Oh, yeah! Right. Right, yeah, of course. Just. I’ll let you know.”

“Perfect.” Sherlock takes the pen out of his hands again, turns the paper over, and scribbles something down below the chapter questions. He clicks the pen off, twirls it between his fingers, and sets it in John’s hand, smiling smugly. “See you at the next show, then. We’re doing _Giselle_ in two weeks.”

And then he’s gone, and John can do nothing but grip the pen in his hand and watch as he sweeps out the door.

o0O0o

“Hey, Harry,” he says, two days later as they both eat their baked potatoes over the otherwise empty table- Mum’s working late and Dad went to bed already, not that either of them mind- and Harry cocks her head in answer as she sprinkles grated cheese over her potato.

“Yeah?”

“Are you doing anything, uh, next _next_ Saturday?”

“Dunno,” Harry says, and sets the bag of cheese back down on the table. Her potato is liberally coated in quickly melting cheese, now, and she seems supremely pleased with it. “Why?”

“Well, someone gave me- I got tickets to go see this… thing,” John says, cutting into the second half of his potato and watching the steam rise into the air. “And I was wondering if you wanted to go with me.”

“Depends what it is,” Harry says, shrugging, and it seems fair.

“Um,” John says, and cuts the half into a few more slices. “It’s, uh. The ballet.”

About to take a bite of her potato, Harry sets her fork back down. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, actually, I-”

“You went and got _tickets?_ ” Harry chortles. “Where’d you get the money, Johnny? And wait, why-”

“I told you, someone gave them to me,” John says, almost wishing he hadn’t brought it up- but then, hey, who else would have wanted to go with him? Certainly no one in his Genetics class, that was for sure.

“And you’re inviting me?”

“Well, yeah. You _are_ my sister, after all.” John smiles, looks back down at his potato.

“Hmm.” Harry mulls it over, chewing the bite of her meal she’d been deprived of before. “Sure, what the heck. I’d love to go with you.”

“Good.”

“But you’re paying for the ice cream this time.”

o0O0o

John and Sherlock don’t exchange a single look for the next few weeks, but certainly not for a lack of trying; every time John sees him in class, in the hallways, even in the bathroom once, he damn near stares at the boy, trying to catch his attention. But nothing seems to work. Either Sherlock has forgotten all about him, which John is beginning to suspect might be the case, or he seems determined not to acknowledge they know anything whatsoever about one another. John can’t help but feel a little insulted (and more than a little crushed.)

But, true to his word, he drags Harry along the night of the show (Sherlock hadn’t given him the exact date; he’d had to look it up on the website. Dick.) They get to the performance hall and John realizes as the lights flicker and the crowd swells to the doors that he doesn’t actually have tickets.

“What do you _mean,_ you don’t have the tickets?” Harry thunders. John winces, trying not to make a scene.

“I forgot, I just- he told me to come, I didn’t think-”

“What _did_ you think, then, Johnny? That we were just going to waltz through the doors without a problem? I can’t believe you.” She folds her arms as he tries to shuffle them both to a drinking fountain so that they’re out of the way.

John sighs. He supposes they have no choice now but to just turn around and head for the doors. He’s never felt this foolish before, even when he’d gotten a ‘B’ minus in Chemistry last year -which was not his fault, _thank you very much_ , just because Ms. Evans hadn’t been able to tell the difference between his ‘4’s and his ‘9’s-

“Excuse me?”

Oh, and here it is. They’re going to be officially kicked out, now. As if the night hasn’t already been an embarrassment. John turns to see a mousy looking girl in a black dress jogging up to them, looking confused and out of breath.

“Are you John Watson?” the girl asks, coming to a halt in front of him and Harry. She looks between the two of them, frowning a little at Harry before looking instead at John.

“Um, yes,” John says, stepping back. He adjusts his shirt. The woman sighs, slumping a little.

“Oh, thank god. I’ve been looking all over for you- no one here seemed to know you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t. Usually go to the ballet,” John says, slowly. “Sorry, why were you looking for me?”

“Oh! Yes,” the girl says, shaking her head, still trying to catch her breath. She plunges a hand into her skirt pocket and pulls out- to John’s absolute amazement- two tickets. “These are for you.” Before John can say anything, she presses them into his hands. “He said you might not be here, but I wanted to make sure…” She looks back at the doors, which are nearly empty now; most of the people have gone in. “I’ve got to go, sorry- enjoy the show!” She gives him a smile as she runs back the way she came, and John is left holding the tickets.

“Well,” Harry says, taking John’s arm and walking them to the doors. “That was lucky.”

“Yeah,” John mutters, not thinking. Then he shakes his head. “No, wait, it wasn’t. He told me to come, didn’t he?”

“No, no, I know he gave them to you.” Harry shakes her head. “I mean wasn’t it lucky that he gave you two tickets? He just invited you to come, after all. Not you and me.”

“Oh,” John says, and looks down at his palm at the two printed tickets. They are side by side, center row, first aisle. He raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“Yeah, ‘wow’ is right. Nice job, Johnny. You’ve got yourself a catch.” Harry giggles, and they pass through the doors and take their programs. John snorts.

“Shut up.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

As it turns out, John doesn’t have to. By the time they get to their seats, the lights have already begun to dim. A short announcement about silencing cell phones plays and John settles into his seat. He can almost see the orchestra pit from here- he can certainly see the conductor’s shining bald spot.

The ballet is incredible. The main ballerina is an ivory skinned girl- really more of a woman- who slides across the floor with every step, nearly weightless. She does not dance to the music, but rather _is_ the music. It’s so sensual John can almost feel her from where he’s sitting. He can’t imagine how many times she must have practiced this- her arms are perfectly synchronized with the strings, and she moves them as if they weigh nothing at all. When she is moving, she is _moving,_ and when she is still- When she is still, it is as if she is not alive at all, but merely a corpse waiting to be reanimated. John squints, scrutinizes, but it doesn’t even look like she breathes.

Sherlock, of course, plays the love interest. He has a relatively uninteresting part, but he looks for all the world as if he is not Sherlock Holmes at all, but truly Duke Albrecht. As he drains himself of energy, dancing until sunrise, convinced that his love for Giselle will triumph over death, John feels something twist inside himself. And as Giselle’s love sets him free, gives him her final farewell, he is not surprised to find himself brought to tears.

When the house lights come back on and the cast comes out for applause, John is one of the first to stand, clapping so hard his hands turn red. The supporting cast comes on first, and then the minor characters, and then Sherlock, and then the girl who plays Giselle. John can’t tell which of the two gets a bigger applause, but he doesn’t care.

As the cast lean over for one final bow, he thinks he can almost see Sherlock catch his eye.

o0O0o

“You came.”

John starts, shoving his hand into empty air where his coat sleeve had been a mere second before. He turns to see Sherlock, standing there, leaning on the edge of the orchestra pit. Most of the crowd has filed out by now; John’s waiting for Harry to come back from the loo.

“Oh, uh,” John says. “Yeah, I did.” He doesn’t really know where to look or what to say, so he scratches at the back of his head, looks just to the side of Sherlock.

“I didn’t think you would.” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

“Really?” John looks up at him. “Why not? I liked the last one.”

“You didn’t-” Sherlock stops himself. “I presumed you were uninterested in further contact.”

Further contact? What is he talking about?

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock blinks, and John is reminded for one bizarre second of a gecko. “My phone number,” he says, as if speaking to a child.

“Your- you never gave me your phone number!” John tugs on his coat, glad to have something to argue, now.

“Yes, I did.” Sherlock frowns, crossing his arms. “Two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks ago-” Right after the last play- oh, of course, the damn paper! He barks out a laugh.

“I didn’t- I just copied down the assignment, I didn’t realize you’d written down your-” He laughs again, zipping up his jacket. “Sorry, I’m sorry- if I’d seen it, I’d have-”

“No need to apologize. Clearly Molly was able to deliver your tickets.”

“Molly? Oh, you mean that girl?”

“The pianist, yes.” Sherlock nods. “Quite talented, she is.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” John looks absently at the stage. Harry is taking quite a while in the bathroom; he hopes she’s all right. “So was the lead,” he says, thinking back to the ivory skinned woman, with the ink-black bun of hair, just a curl or two slipping out.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Very talented.”

“Almost,” John says, “as good as you, I think.”

Sherlock sniffs. “She’s studied for longer.”

“And when did you start?”

“Six.”

And this is it, this is where John’s expertise in small talk ends. So he waits a moment or two, coughs, tries to think of something else- anything else- to say.

“So,” he begins, looking at the nearest stage prop, which happens to be a tree. “Did you two meet here, or…?”

Sherlock blinks again, rapidly, as if he is trying to process what, exactly, John is trying to do. He sort of snorts and giggles and leans harder against the stage as he laughs, _really_ laughs. John thinks the sound is more beautiful than anything he’s heard from the orchestra.

“Irene’s dancing may be marvelous, but she leaves much to be desired,” Sherlock says, at John’s bewilderment. “Not that my list of potential candidates is nonexistent, but I’m afraid to say she doesn’t make the list.”

It takes John a second to figure out precisely what he means.

“So you do have a list, then,” he says carefully. “Of- of candidates.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and John cannot tell what his face is supposed to mean. Perhaps that’s the point.  “It’s short.”

“How short?”

“Short enough for the average person to safely assume their name is not included.”

“Uh huh.” John waits, but Sherlock doesn’t say anything. “And?” he prompts, crossing his arms and offering a smile.

“And you, John Watson, are far from average.”

“Am I, now?” John bites back a grin, keeping his bottom lip secure under his top row of teeth. But nothing he does can stop him from smiling like an idiot.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and John’s smile appears to be working. He unfolds his arms and takes a step towards John.  

John had a girlfriend, once. He’d asked her out at the end of class, brought it up almost casually. He’d asked her if she’d wanted to go to the winter dance with him, and she’d blushed and said yes and he’d smiled back at her.

This, John thinks, is nothing like asking out Sarah Sawyer.

There are approximately 1,025,110 words in the English language, and John just _knows_ that if he doesn’t choose exactly the right ones and put them in exactly the right order, he hasn’t got a chance.

“I could get you a backstage pass,” Sherlock says, taking another step towards him. The hall is empty now, save for the first few cleaners sweeping the aisles. “If you’re interested in a more… in depth look.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” John uncrosses his arms. Somehow Sherlock is taller than him, even though he has to be at least a year younger, if not two. He’s got a damn lanky frame, too. John’s more muscle than anything, but he’s always thought of himself as a little pudgy. But Sherlock could probably fit through a keyhole if he dove through it headfirst.

“Good.” Sherlock is smiling, now, so that must mean John’s done something right. He holds out a hand. “In the meantime, though. Dinner?”

John takes it, and finds that it’s pleasantly warm, unlike the cold untouchable flesh he’d been expecting. “Actually, uh, I’ve got plans,” he says, and Sherlock’s face falls.

“I see.” The hand begins to tug away.

“But you can join Harry and me for ice cream if you like,” he adds, holding tighter. The hand stills, relaxes.

“Ice cream?”

“Yeah,” John says, brightly. “There’s this place that’s got the most amazing stuff, oh my god- I dunno if you like sweet stuff, but it’s got pretzels and chocolate and caramel and-”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer,” Sherlock interrupts. John’s face is the one that falls, now. “Social outings and myself do not usually mix well. But,” Sherlock adds, and John looks up. “If you happen to _not_ have plans some other night…?”

“Yeah?”

“Feel free to text.”

John squeezes his hand, lets go. “I will.”

“Good.”

Neither of them say anything. John stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking for something to do, and Sherlock stands in the middle of the carpet, apparently out of things to say. They hear a broom sweeping over the floor, collecting various crumbs from food smuggled under coats, dirt tracked in by boots caught in the rain, spare change neglected. A click, and a vacuum comes to life.

John coughs. “I should go,” he says. “Harry’s probably waiting in the lobby for me.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, nodding, glad for the break in the silence. “Yes, you should… go.”

John doesn’t move. For a moment, the silence is back. He almost turns to go, but something stops him. Clenching the hand in his coat pocket, he takes a step forward, into the aisle, and pecks Sherlock very lightly on the lips. Not a real kiss, more like… like the promise of one. He pulls back, looks worriedly up at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks once, twice, three times. His cheeks, usually white enough to deem him unhealthily sleepy, begin to color until they are pink as the evening sunset.

“Not good?” John ventures.

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it. Swallows something down. Opens his mouth. Thinks. “No,” he says, eyes trained on something John cannot see- possibly nothing at all. “Not good.”

“Oh,” John says, color rising to his own cheeks. He hefts Harry’s bag under his arm.

“ _Brilliant._ ”

And then the bag is dropped back on the ground as John is hauled forward by the collar of his coat, and Sherlock’s mouth is on his again and this time it’s a _proper_ kiss, oh yes-

Harry teases him about it the entire walk home, and he buys her a King sized cup of Kangamangus.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from this quote: "In ballet, you're not encouraged to do a lot of breathing. I think in a weird way, a lot of dancers find relief in actually breathing." -Elizabeth Berkley
> 
> This story was originally a birthday present, and then a late birthday present, and then a late halloween present, and then a late christmas present for [robottko](http://www.robottko.tumblr.com) , to whom I apologize with all of my heart. Happy early birthday (again).
> 
> Also fun fact! You can in fact get Kangamangus ice cream (which does have chocolate covered pretzels and caramel to boot) at Hayward's Ice Cream in New Hampshire.


End file.
